


Hatched

by thegreatgayjatsby



Category: Homestuck, MS Paint Adventures
Genre: Back rubs, Birth, Bodily Fluids, Cuddling, Dualscar in a lot of pain, Eggs hatching, Gravid!Scar, Grubs, M/M, Nothing too gross, Oviposition, Ovistuck, Pain that comes with oviposition, Pregnancy, Pregnant!Scar, Psii and his garbage sense of humor, Stillborn grub, instincts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-26
Updated: 2015-01-26
Packaged: 2018-03-09 04:37:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3236462
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegreatgayjatsby/pseuds/thegreatgayjatsby
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dualscar, through much pain and suffering, gives Signless a set of hatchlings. </p><p>
  <i> You absolutely despise your past self for agreeing to this, and with such gusto, at that. You had to admit, the thought of being used as a pail, and then a mothergrub, to incubate your matesprit’s offspring, definitely appealed to you. What you hadn’t known was that you would be in so much pain. </i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hatched

**Author's Note:**

> first not smut in a long time tell me i did good

The pain of being with grub doesn’t even compare to the time you had to uphold your position as the Orphaner and were rewarded with your infamous scars. You feel useless; curled around your gravid belly, cramps having long brought you back to Signless’ tent. 

You’ve been grimacing for so long that your scars are starting to pull and ache, only adding to your list of grievances. Your spine aches, your stomach hurts, your face is sore, your nook itches, your feet are swollen, you’re so off-balance you can’t stand without assistance--it’s not fair!

You absolutely despise your past self for agreeing to this, and with such gusto, at that. You had to admit, the thought of being used as a pail, and then a mothergrub, to incubate your matesprit’s offspring, definitely appealed to you. What you hadn’t known was that you would be in so much pain. 

Yes, thick, ropey scars criss-cross your torso and back, and you’ve been in many a scrap, but that doesn’t mean you were prepared for the long-lasting agony of your intestines being driven into each other by the eggs growing within you. At this point, you can hardly go a few hours without throwing up the meager amounts of food that’ve been forced down your protein chute. 

It doesn’t matter how much Dolorosa tries to push that food into you, you simply can’t hold it down. The grubs are taking so much energy from you, you can’t even eat for yourself. You’re withering away here, trapped on your side, long since having abandoned your tight breeches and armor for a simple cotton shirt. 

You suppose some of the perks of being so reliant is that Signless completely spends his time doting on you. Speaking of your mutantblooded lover, he brushes the flap of the tent entrance aside, and enters. 

He comes bearing soup, and you wrinkle your nose in distaste. The mere smell of sustenance hangs heavy in your olfactory canals, and you give a tiny squirm, stomach bubbling in protest. “Sign, please.” You rasp, tilting your head and pursing your lips a little.

“You have to keep eating, Dual, the grubs are growing and you need to stay in good health.” He says, as if it were so easy, settling on the edge of the cot in primary spoon-feeding position. 

The soup does smell rather good, you observe, stomach rumbling, with hunger, this time. “I’ll do half, maybe.” You settle, heaving yourself up into a more suitable position for eating. 

He looks like he wants to reach out and assist, but doing so would result in soup covering both of your laps. You can handle yourself, after all, you are the Orphaner of Her Imperious Condescension, the Commodore of the Empress’ Imperial Star Fleet. You can handle sitting up all by yourself, how ever much the strain makes your back hurt. 

The first spoonful goes down easily, as does the second, and third. You have to take a break after the next mouthful, and Signless waits patiently, balancing the soup between his legs on the cot. When you’re ready to continue, he gladly resumes, feeding you and murmuring praise as you swallow.

Your facial fins twitch a little in embarrassment--being told you’re a good boy for eating soup, for Mother’s sake?--and a light violet blush rises on your high cheekbones. 

As promised, you finish around half the bowl before you feel full. You suppose the eggs are taking up the rest of the room, your intestines all pressed together to make way for the grubs growing inside you. Signless looks a little disappointed that you can’t eat more, and your gills swell in a show of irritation.

He placates you by setting the bowl aside and helping you lie back down, hands of a much warmer body temperature smoothing over your stomach. He cradles you from behind, stroking your stomach and whispering sweet, flushed words against the lower-most tine of your fin.

You drift to sleep within a few steady moments of his petting, and your soporless sleep is relatively peaceful. By the time you awaken, it’s dusk, and the warmth of Signless pressed to your back has vanished. You immediately pinpoint what woke you up.

The insides of your thighs are drenched with a vicious violet fluid, and the cot beneath you is just as wet. A surge of pain jolts you to your core, and instinctually, you struggle to your feet. You can’t think straight at this point, and you grit your teeth as you leave the tent. 

It’s been at least a week since you’ve last been on your feet for more than a few minutes, and your legs burn with exertion under the extra weight you’re carrying within moments. It takes you longer than you would have wished to make it to the treeline, and you only get a good few yards into the forest before collapsing. 

You settle in the hollow of the roots of a tree, doubled over as your entire abdomen seizes with pain. You sink your teeth into the insides of your cheeks to keep from howling, and you brace your feet on the ground before you, legs spread. 

It takes a second or two before the pain fades and you can function, and you gather up the hem of your shirt to bite, lifting it clear of the mess your body has made. Thighs trembling, you reach down, smoothing two careful fingers over the swollen lips of your nook. 

You’re incredibly dilated, feeling both empty and stuffed full, and you trace the seam of your entrance before wiping your hand on your shirt and trying to relax as the next wave of agony hits you. It doesn’t take long for you to grab onto the roots of the tree on either side of you, clawing at the bark and bucking slightly into the ripples inside you. 

You only notice the tears running down your face when you taste salt on your lips, and you spit out the hem of your shirt to cry out. The first egg is moving, you can feel it’s weight inside you. Trying not to writhe, you tear the lower half of your shirt off, bundling it beneath your steadily drooling nook. 

You scream when the egg passes from your material-reception bladder and into the passage of your nook, past your seedflap, but it swiftly moves through you and to the ground between your legs. 

There’s no time for you to worry about cracks or coo over your egg, because the next one is already slipping into place. You sink your claws as deep as you can into the roots of the tree and keen, voice animalistic with agony. You hope the others aren’t summoned by your noises; your instincts tell you to hide until your weakness is over. 

The second egg is harder on you, the walls of your nook convulsing in desperate attempts to push it free. It falls next to the first within a few painful moments, and the next two follow quickly and easily. The fourth comes as a surprise, much smaller, much slower, and you slump back against the tree, exhausted, as it slips into the makeshift nest with its hatchmates.

You take a long few moments to catch your breath, panting, horns resting back on the trunk of the tree, before sitting up more. You finally seem to have regained some sort of fine motor skills, and you put them to use. 

Gently, you reach for the five eggs in your lap, inspecting each for cracks. They’re each the size of a tennis ball or so, but the fifth is only a fraction of that size. It’s slightly deflated, as well, and emotion wells in your throat. It’s weak, only partially developed, and won’t ever see the light of day. 

Perhaps you really should have eaten more. But never mind that, there’s no time for mourning your lost grub, now. You have to attend to the others. 

Carefully, you place the fifth egg off to the side, trying to push it from your mind. You turn each over, wiping your fluids off them and holding them softly. They each fit nicely in the palm of your hand, and you smile a little. 

You curl around them, and crackling meets your ears. The first cracks begin to appear in the shells of the eggs, and you smile brighter, gently cooing at your clutch. A pincer breaks free, and your pusher swells with pride. The first grub tumbles from his prison, squeaking up at you loudly. 

He’s a violet, holding the same lightning-bolt horns, the same fins. They flare out, and you scoop him into your lap. The others follow, a mutant with Signless’ horns, a seadweller with a weft of violet in his hair--probably a mutation from Signless’ genes--and another, smaller mutant. 

You steel yourself, then kiss the weak shell of your stillborn grub’s egg, then bury it. You gather the rest of them up, all of them squeaking, and you coo at them gently until they quiet down. Next order of business--they’re hungry. You tie the remnants of your torn shirt around your waist, saving some sort of dignity, and you stand on shaking legs. 

Signless, Psiioniic, and Dolorosa are gathered at the mouth of the forest, all nervously awaiting your return. Arms full, you limp towards them. Signless rushes towards you, arms open, and drapes them around you. His hands follow your arms, gushing over you and the grubs. 

The squeak and call for him, pincers waving, and when the smaller mutant climbs over your violet-wefted seadweller, the other wails. Signless kisses you, then lifts the larger two grubs from you. You hold the smaller grubs to your chest, and you kiss the screaming one, and it quiets. 

Psii helps you back to Signless’ tent, and Dolorosa gives you a thorough inspection. Nothing is left untouched or ungazed upon--your nook, your stomach, your eyes, your feet. It’s absurd, but you let her. She gives you a clean bill of health, and she moves onto the grubs. 

You lay down on the cot, which has been replaced with fresh linens, the ones you stained presumedly in the wash, and gather the grubs on your chest. Disciple hunted a lusus down for the grubs, and you remind yourself to thank her later, even as you begin to feed your grubs. You dip your fingers into a saucer of lusus-milk, then offer the fingers to your offspring. 

They suckle greedily, and the smaller of the two get into a scuffle when the mutant finished his finger’s milk, trying to bully violet-weft away from his. You school them into complacency with a low growl, and they settle after a second. 

Dolorosa briefs Signless on care for both you and the grubs, then leaves, assuring you that if you need anything, she will be there. Psiioniic heads out to fetch you something to eat, leaving you and Signless with the grubs. 

He sits on the edge of the cot with you, petting your hair and feeding the grubs with you. “Thank you.” He whispers, and you flutter your fins at him. “They’re beautiful.” He continues, and you pull him down by his cloak for a kiss. 

Psiioniic returns, and you tear into the meat and bread he’s brought. The food feels like it’ll stay down, and you steal some of the milk from the grubs, as per Rosa’s instruction. 

The yellowblood slides down to sit by your feet, reaching out to thumb through a grub’s hair. The violet squeaks and turns to scrabble at his hands and he laughs. You chuckle as well, and Signless tuts at the grub’s behavior. 

“So when are you ready to do this again?” Psii drawls, and you glower at him, eyes wide. 

Signless covers his mouth with his hand to hide a laugh, and you smack Psii in the stomach. “Why don’t you try it? Then we’ll see how much you want to do it again.” 

He laughs, and you sigh softly, just closing your eyes and holding your grubs close, surrounded by your quadrants. You don’t think you can bring up the stillborn grub right now, but at some point, you’ll have to tell them. Just not now. 

Now, all you can do is care for the ones that survived.


End file.
